Older Than Trees
by Iscah McKrae
Summary: Scene with a very small Jess Mariano in a library. Just a snippet...because when the thought came to me, it was so beguiling that I couldn't help but write it.


_**A/N: This is something that came to me today as I was organizing one of my shelves. Suddenly, I heard a little voice…no, not literally…but, I could see him in my mind's eye…and I had to sit down and write this. Thank you to Melethril, whose "He came in here nearly every day" clearly was a source of inspiration. Also, to Melethril: This story in no way pre-empts or conflicts with yours, or changes anything of what we've tentatively planned with regard to Oliver Walsh. It was just something that came to me, and I could not resist the pull to put it down on paper.**_

_**Hope you enjoy!**_

_Older Than Trees_

She'd seen him standing there. He came in often, and she'd seen some of the librarians telling him sternly to go home, though she couldn't fathom why. Such a small boy…a tiny boy with hungry…starving, soul-deep eyes. She didn't know his story, but just at the sight of him, something ached. She'd seen him standing there, watching her. Shelving books wasn't a terribly interesting thing to watch, particularly for a small child…and these weren't children's books. He wouldn't damage books, would he? That would be one reason for the other librarians to send him on his way - if he wouldn't listen when told how to treat the books properly, that is. But, somehow, though she knew nothing about him, she couldn't visualize him being cruel to the pages of her books. _The library's books_, she corrected herself. Three times, she almost turned to speak to him. But, in the end, it was he who spoke first.

"Can I help?" Tiny. Tentative. Almost eager, but a little afraid. She stopped stock still and looked at him, taking stock. She'd tried to guess his age before, but it baffled her. From his size, he could have been as young as three…though four or five would be more likely. This was the first time she'd heard him speak, so she'd had no opportunity to analyze his level of word pronunciation or sentence forming. Heartbreakingly, something about him seemed hardened, in a way that made her think _sixteen_ and _forty_ simultaneously. But, there was a tiredness too. In this tiny, little boy, there was a tiredness that was older than the trees which had been felled and milled to print the oldest book in the library.

"What's your name?" she asked, curiosity coloring her own inflection, for she was _so curious _about this little oddity of a boy.

"Jess Mariano." He said the syllables very distinctly, as if they'd been practiced carefully, perhaps to recite to teachers in school. She blinked at him, a hint of a smile flickering in her eyes.

"Where is your mother?" This question caused the child to stiffen, eyes dropping to the floor and little brow creasing in trepidation, feet shuffling and thumbs squirming around, sticking just outside his pockets. _On a child that small, thumbs ought to be chubby. _Her eyes returned to his face as he struggled with the question. It wasn't a question a child should have to struggle with.

"She said I could come in here," he volunteered at last, as if he'd hit upon something he could say that might be helpful, his face brightening with mild hopefulness.

"Yes, but where is she?" the young librarian reiterated. His face fell. He looked woefully at the shelves of books, scanning their covers, as if he knew he would be banished from their presence once again at any moment, and he almost couldn't bear the separation. Finally, he shrugged, shoulders high with the completeness of his ignorance about his mother's whereabouts. The young woman felt a pang, worrying that such a little mite had no clue where his mother might be. Maybe there was some other explanation. Maybe he lived with his father…or grandparents…maybe… She decided not to press the matter, since it seemed to cause him distress.

"She _did_ say I could come in here," he repeated, less hopefully, but nonetheless insistently. "_Can_ I help?" he asked again. He watched her as she considered this, eyes on the precious volumes, some of which were so old as to be worn and fragile. "I can be careful. I can be _very_ careful!" he assured her. A smile broke out over her lovely face.

After a moment's further consideration, she conceded. "You can hand them to me from the box," she told him, thinking this would satisfy the little one…let him feel helpful. The twist of his mouth gave away the fact that he would do this, if it was all he were allowed to do; but, that it wouldn't satisfy whatever craving drove him to this helpful impulse.

"Can I put them on the shelves?" he suggested in an almost mournful tone, plainly certain in a sort-of time-tested way that she would tell him no.

"Well, you see," she explained, "they have to be put on the shelves in a particular order, and lined up in a certain way. So, I'm afraid, I'll have to do it, but if you'll hand them to me, I _can_ work faster." His shoulders didn't seem to find this satisfactory and shifted themselves this way and that along with his worried eyebrows.

"I know it's the last name is important," he volunteered, eyes large and determined. He didn't seem to like talking, but obviously, proving himself on this point was so vital that he overcame this aversion. She stared at him. "And, sometimes it comes first, but not on the…" He seemed to be searching for a word. "Skeleton," he said decidedly. Her lips threatened to smile, though she knew that amusement at a mistake was unkind, so she softened the smile, and her eyes were gentle.

"Do you mean the spine?" she offered. He nodded.

"Sometimes it comes first on the plastic on the…spine…but, not… But, not on the front, or the spine with the name of the book." Very intent to get the words right, so that he might be allowed to help in the way _he wanted to help, he plead his case eloquently. "And I know to make them very straight. I think the spine should touch the front of the shelf…but, Addison says she likes them backed-up so there's a space…like this." He held his thumb and forefinger about an inch apart to show the distance. "But, I like them like here." He pointed to the books lined up so that the spines were flush with the shelf's edge, but not touching them with his pointed finger, in case that might be considered an affront. The young librarian's eyes were opened wide, in pleased wonder._

"_How old are you, Jess?" she smiled, realizing that it was probably as simple as asking. After a moment's deliberation, which seemed to be a debate whether this was something he should tell her, boy held up four lean fingers. It was hardly believable. Four years old? Couldn't be. Just couldn't be. She laughed quietly, surprised that it came out sounding more like a sob. She wanted to bring this child home. She wanted to keep him. She wanted to make his thumbs chubby and make sure he never again shrugged with his shoulders nearly up to his ears when somebody asked him where his mother was. She wanted to give him rest and play and happiness so he could never hold up four fingers, but look older than trees._

_Suddenly she realized that there were tears trickling down her face, and the little boy with the soul-deep eyes was looking at her as if he was scared he put them there. She smiled deliberately, very broadly and very bright, giving again the laugh-sob._

"_You can help me, Jess," she assured him, brightly but with a breaking, thin voice. "You can help me any time you want."_


End file.
